Let the Wolves Enjoy My Bones
by Scarlett Barnes
Summary: "When I die let the wolves enjoy my bones/When I die let me go/When I die you can push me out to sea/When I die set me free" Expansion/Rewrite of the post-credit scene from Civil War. Bucky's musings and thought process leading up to his decision. Rated T for language. (One-shot. COMPLETE)


**A/N: Hey everyone, thanks for stopping by. This piece was inspired by the song "Wolves" by Down Like Silver, and this is my attempt at an expansion/rewrite of the first post-credit scene from Civil War. I wasn't totally happy with it, as I'm sure a lot of you weren't, because it seemed like it shortchanged the characterization that had been built up thus far. So, this is meant to shed a little light on Bucky's thought process leading up to his decision. I hope I can do justice to what I had hoped to see. Please let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Let the Wolves Enjoy My Bones

* * *

 _Oh, the world is dark_

 _And I've looked as far as I can see_

 _When the years have torn me apart_

 _Let me be_

* * *

Darkness gathered at the edge of the forest, pressing and grabbing at the shining facility with greedy hands. Talon-tipped fingers of shadow inched ever closer, threatening to encircle his throat and squeeze the life out of him. From his vantage point, safely contained behind a wall of glass windows, he could look out over the entire jungle if he wished. But not now; not in the deepest part of the night when the shadows ruled and the stars reigned above.

T'Challa had been kind enough to give him a room with a view to the outside world. A kindness he didn't deserve; not after everything he'd done. But the king had seen the facility in Siberia, where he'd spent so much of his time as the Winter Soldier, and was wise enough to realize how much it would affect him to be lodged in a windowless room. That place was a tomb, devoid of life and light; so unlike the place he now found himself in.

The Soldier—or was he Barnes? It was hard to separate the two, even now. Whoever he was, he made to cross his arms over his chest, and found his hand grasping at air. He looked down and felt that familiar pang of fear go through his chest at seeing the black, rubber sleeve covering what was left of his metal arm. Gingerly, he placed a finger on the cold, unyielding material. Not so long ago, he would have been able to feel the sensation. But after Siberia… many things had changed that day, some more than others.

The Wakandan scientists had been helpful in containing the damage to the machine part of him. Not that it truly mattered. The nerves in his shoulder had been destroyed beyond repair a long time ago. Hydra science officers with too much ambition and too little care had seen to that. But the metal had allowed some small sensation, which was enough to make him feel partially human when they seized his mind and made him someone else. Made him a monster.

Now, there was nothing there. No whirr of machinery as the electrical systems read the signals passed down from his brain, forcing the metal to move as quickly as his flesh-and-blood arm used to. No pulse of power at the sheer force he could bend to his will. No wonder at the tiny, delicate movements he could summon to handle the most fragile of objects.

When he thought about it, the arm hadn't been all bad. It certainly had its uses, and had gotten him out of more than one sticky situation. But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't glad to be rid of the thing that had helped turn him into Hydra's favorite weapon. The only problem was… now he felt nothing. Where before there had been purpose and drive, now he just felt lost. Even though that purpose hadn't been his own, and the drive had been fabricated, it was something. Something was better than nothing… wasn't it?

Leaning forward, he laid his palm flat against the glass and stared out as far as he could see. The jungle trees, normally a vibrant green, were black as pitch, reminding him of the ocean at night. Swaying in the gentle breeze, he could almost imagine himself on a boat again.

A fragment of a memory came back to him then; streams of sunlight on blonde hair and a woman laughing. Salt air and hot wind, whipping at his clothes. The snap of a sail and the screech of a bird. Warmth; light; laughter… love.

It slipped away from him before he could grasp it fully, grapple with it and force it to remain with him. Quickly, he crossed to the desk where he kept the most precious item he owned in the entire world. And he truly owned it; no one else knew of its existence, not even Steve. It was the only thing entirely his, and he'd keep it that way for as long as he could. He threw the drawer open and found a pen, laying the journal down on the empty desk space.

With only one hand, he was finding mundane things to be increasingly difficult. But he'd always been adaptable—even before Hydra—and was learning to work through his disability. A glass ball that served as a paperweight had proven to be very useful to him as he placed it in the middle of the journal, forcing it to remain open so he could write.

Before the last wisps of the memory escaped him, his pen flew across the page. Penmanship had never been his strong suit—that was Steve's thing—but his choppy script and slanted letters made sense to him. That was the only thing that mattered.

Ever since that day on the Potomac, he'd been jotting down words to form the abstract images of his memory. As the days and months wore on, the images slowly became clearer, more coherent. The only problem was that he very rarely had any context to place on those slices of his former life. Sometimes, he could figure it out based on facts he knew about himself. A farmhouse surrounded by stalks of corn reaching towards the heavens. That was his childhood home in Indiana, if the museum exhibit was to be believed.

But, more often than not, he hadn't a clue what the images meant. The memory of the boat; it held no meaning to him beyond the vague senses of feeling he could sometimes detect. He knew he'd been happy that day… but goddammit _why_ had he been happy? Was that woman laughing at a joke he'd told? He didn't even know if he was funny or not; there was no room for humor in the Soldier's mind. Why were they on the boat in the first place? Did he enjoy sailing? Or was he just trying to get lucky with the girl?

There were so many unanswered questions; so many days he'd lived and lost to the eddies of the torture he'd endured.

And then there were other memories; memories he did his best to set fire to and destroy. Those were the ones that plagued his nightmares and made it impossible to sleep. As he lay there sobbing, curled into a ball and weeping like a child, the Soldier would take over and he could hide away. Days, sometimes weeks, would pass and the Soldier would wear his skin when he wasn't able to function. Without a directive, the Soldier went into autopilot, going through the motions to survive day-to-day. It was his greatest blessing, and his greatest curse.

Most days, he could control it. Other days, something would happen that was unexpected—a loud noise or police vehicles coming too close—that would spur the Soldier into action. Sometimes, Bucky could hold him off; convince him that they weren't in any danger, and that he was capable of handling the situation on his own. Other times, the Soldier was too strong. Even now, just thinking about him for too long, Bucky could feel that imposing presence pressing against his mind.

"Get the _fuck_ out of here." Anger colored his voice, but even he knew he sounded weak. And that was one thing he could not afford to be around the Soldier. That bastard was smirking, inching ever closer to seizing control. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and braced against the desk, concentrating every ounce of his willpower into resisting the other half of himself.

Minutes stretched on like hours as they pushed against one another, until a sheen of sweat broke on his brow. He imagined a shield; not like Steve's, but big enough to protect himself and push back. Finally, the Soldier slunk back into the darkest corners of his mind and settled down. Bucky's breathing gradually slowed and returned to normal. The tension left his shoulders and he was able to stand up straight again, although he was a little dizzy. These battles of the mind didn't happen very often, but when they did, it always left Bucky feeling tired.

The room seemed smaller than it had before, like the walls were closing in on him. A sudden need for fresh air overtook him, and he slipped out of his room into the common area beyond that linked his living quarters to Steve's. A long couch sat near the windows, facing a flat-screened television on the opposite wall. To his left, a small kitchen just large enough for a single person, shining and clean from disuse. Directly ahead of him was the door he knew led into the room identical to his; a room which Steve Rogers now occupied.

If he quieted his breath, slowed his heart rate enough and stood absolutely still, he could just hear the deep, rhythmic breathing of the man beyond the door. It was better that he was sleeping. Bucky needed to wrestle with his thoughts; come to a decision that Steve could not help him make.

The thoughts had plagued his mind for weeks now. Although King T'Challa had been more than gracious, and the people here treated him like a real human being, the world still felt a bit off kilter, like he was twisted on some self-sustaining axis. An axis which only he himself occupied. Steve had certainly tried to join him on that axis, but every time he got too close, Bucky felt himself careening off course again.

It wasn't that he didn't know Steve. Of course he knew him; he was Captain America for fuck's sake. And he also knew they'd known each other a lifetime ago. They'd known each other pretty well. They were... best friends, he thought. It was hard to remember sometimes. The happy memories would come to him and Steve would be there. First, he was small and weak... then, _he wasn't_. But there were other memories too; fuzzy memories that didn't make any sense with what he knew as fact. Those ones, Bucky was pretty sure Hydra had planted. Maybe they'd known, and maybe they hadn't. But some part of Zola and his successors had known Captain America would always present a threat to their greatest achievement. Well, _second_ greatest...

Even now, being in such close proximity to Steve... he had to fight—no, he had to rage—against the Soldier's instinct to eliminate the threat. And that was the part that scared him the most; the part that had prompted this idea in the first place.

He couldn't trust himself around Steve, the one person he _needed_ to trust himself around. There was a tightness in his chest he couldn't put a name to whenever he thought of Steve and everything they'd been through. Not just since D.C., but before, too. Back before the train and the long plummet into the ravine. That tightness didn't come from the Soldier's desire to kill, _kill, KILL..._ No, it came from Bucky himself.

Steve had sacrificed so much for him. He'd given up his goddamn _identity_ for him. No matter how much the Soldier pushed him away, Steve kept coming back. And when the Sokovian had painted him a murderer—when the entire world had been hunting him—Steve had moved heaven and earth to help him, to keep him safe and prove his innocence. For all that—for the entire world—what could he give in return?

A giant pile of fucking nothing.

Bucky felt his phantom arm clench its fist, shuddering at the tingling sensation of nothing being where something should. He needed to get out of here, away from these walls and this stifling air. He needed to _breathe._

A glass door on the wall of windows led to a wide balcony, hanging overtop a concrete veranda far down below. Quietly, Bucky pushed the door open, softening its closing behind him, and padded on silent feet across the warm stone. Though the sun had set a long time ago, its heat was still trapped underneath him. But the air all around was cool and refreshing, filling his lungs, calming his raging nerves. The night was alive with voices; animals, insects, and people. Far off, a waterfall raged over a cliff, roaring with constant triumph.

He closed his eyes for a moment, drinking it all in. It'd been so long since he'd been able to just _enjoy_ his surroundings. As many fantastic and exotic places the Soldier had seen, he'd never enjoyed a fucking second of it. Enjoyment was the direct opposite of what he'd experienced. Now, he just felt guilty for enjoying it; enjoying anything, really. How could he think he deserved to be happy? What had he done to—?

The Soldier suddenly bristled in awareness. _They weren't alone._

"Do you find your lodgings to your liking?" a musical voice asked from the deep shadows. Bucky cursed himself for not scanning the balcony before he came out here. Even though he was in, quite possibly, the most isolated place on the planet, he was not completely safe from his enemies.

Lucky for him, this man was not one of them. He inclined his head in a show of respect to the king of Wakanda, relaxing his clenched fist and standing with his back to the balcony railing. "It's very comfortable, Your Majesty," he said quietly, willing an unfamiliar softness onto his face. It was an effort to appear normal, something he'd been working on daily for the past two years. And his mouth tripped over the foreign honorific. The Soldier would have delivered that line with calculated composure, but not Bucky...

Out of the shadows, T'Challa stalked towards him with a feline grace. But there was nothing predatory in his movements or in his gaze. Rather, he seemed to be inspecting Bucky, searching for something but never revealing on his face what that _thing_ might be. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his eyes remained slightly narrowed as they turned toward the jungle before them.

"And my country? Do you find that to your liking as well?" he questioned further. Bucky couldn't be sure if it was loaded or not, but there was no reason to lie.

"I think it's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen." Bucky inched away from the man before him just slightly. They'd reconciled with one another after their earlier misunderstanding... but the Soldier was ever present, and the king of Wakanda was nothing less than lethal.

"Yet you find no happiness here." It wasn't a question. Bucky felt his muscles freeze and his eyes slide over to the man beside him. Whatever he'd been about to say, T'Challa never gave him the chance. With the smoothness of a dancer, he pivoted to face him full on, his face its usual mask of calm. "It has not escaped my notice," he continued, devoid of judgment, "that you draw deeper into yourself every day."

The words seemed to lodge in his throat. He wanted to lay bare all the thoughts raging in his mind, set them loose and be free of their constant, pounding presence... But the Soldier held him back, his unwavering sense of self-preservation kicking in at the least convenient moment.

"I... well, it's not—"

"You do not need to wear your mask around me, Mr. Barnes," T'Challa interjected quietly.

Bucky started at the idea. It was too alien to him. He didn't even fully remove his mask around Steve; why would he show the fucked up mess that lay underneath to this man who'd tried to kill him only a few weeks ago?

"Yeah, well..." He tried to sound unaffected, like he wasn't shattering underneath this façade. "I'm not really sure who's hiding underneath this mask, so... I'll keep it on for now, if ya don't mind."

T'Challa allowed himself a small smirk, and looked down at his feet. "If you wish," he conceded. "But there is one who deserves to see underneath. Don't you think you should allow him that small favor?" The question was innocent enough on its surface, but Bucky could sense the deeper meaning swirling just beneath.

Why was he saying this? He'd done his best to seem like he was making progress here in Wakanda. How had its king seen right through him? Bucky shifted uncomfortably on his feet and rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly as his bone ground painfully against the mangled mess of metal protruding from him. The scientists has done their best to make him comfortable, to lessen the pain that was slowly gnawing away at him, but they could only do so much.

The truth was, he hadn't allowed himself to forget the pain. They poked and prodded and pumped him full of medicine, but at the end of the day, he always flushed those pain pills down the toilet. Sometimes, he'd wake in the middle of the night and have to shove a pillow over his face to muffle his screams. Bolts of fire seared down his left shoulder blade and over his back, seizing him up and making it impossible to move. He'd lie awake for hours, unable to fall back asleep from the pain and afraid to, in case he was overcome by a nightmare. His mental and physical trauma made it impossible to rest.

So now, he'd force himself to.

And somehow—damned if he knew how—T'Challa had seen right through him and figured out what he aimed to do. Or maybe what he was just contemplating doing... Hell, he didn't know. But maybe talking about it could help clear his mind. God only knows there was too much shit floating around in there as it was.

"Am I crazy?" he suddenly blurted out. When he said it out loud, it sounded completely stupid. And he just hoped his instinct about T'Challa had been correct.

When he saw the knowing look the king gave him, Bucky knew he had been. "It is a wise man who can admit his failings," he said, not unkindly.

"Yeah, I sure as hell have plenty of those," he replied with a chuckle. And he was surprised to find that it was genuine. "But I mean... is this the right thing to do?" He wasn't sure why he was seeking the validation of a man he barely knew, but it was the only tether he had right now. He'd hold onto it for dear life as long as he could.

"Only you can answer that, Mr. Barnes. No man—or woman, for that matter—can make this decision for you." The king's words hit him like a stone, sinking deep down and settling like a weight within him. Something ached in his chest; maybe it was understanding, but he didn't dare delve deeper. His shell was thin, and the Soldier lurked just underneath.

"I can't trust him... I can't trust myself," he admitted slowly, clenching his fist opened and closed in a rhythmic ritual that sometimes helped to calm him. "I _want_ to be who they want me to be, but I can't. Not while _he's_ still around."

"Then you have already made up your mind?" the king questioned him, narrowing his gaze ever so slightly.

Bucky's eyes darted around wildly, trying to find something to focus on that wouldn't stare right back. But there was nothing except stone and cold, unfeeling metal surrounding him. He couldn't keep running, not if he ever wanted to move forward. And _fuck,_ did he want to get past this.

He needed to admit it out loud. But more than that, he needed to admit it to himself; both halves of his whole. The Soldier was alert, always on the lookout for imminent threats. As the words bubbled up in his chest, he could feel the Soldier tensing up, ready to strike at any moment. It wasn't in his nature to panic, but Bucky thought he could just detect the Soldier's fear leaking out.

"I have to go back under," he finally said, willing steel into his voice when he felt as unstable as the waves of the sea. "For everyone's safety, I have to go back under. It's the only way. At least, until..." The thought faded away into silence. He hadn't actually thought that far ahead yet. What was the purpose in him going back into cryo? Was he hoping the Soldier would go away on his own? Or did he just assume that someone would help him figure it out?

Silently, he cursed himself and his stupid fucking assumptions.

"Until... what, exactly?" T'Challa prompted him, edging slightly closer.

Bucky swept his eyes to the stone floor beneath him, shutting out the pounding pain in his head. If the Soldier had figured out what he was doing yet, he couldn't tell, and he really didn't care. It was time for him to take back control, permanently.

"You all have been willing to help me so far," he started slowly, daring a look back up at the king, "and I know I don't deserve a single damn piece of your generosity. But I have to ask... I have to beg for your help again. Whatever Hydra put in here—" he tapped a finger to his temple, a little harder than was probably necessary, "—I need it gone. It puts everyone in danger, not just me. The things I've done... I couldn't live with myself if I ever did them again."

T'Challa seemed to chew on this for a moment, never taking his eyes off the broken and defeated man that stood begging for his help. Bucky didn't care if he seemed weak, not like the Soldier would. He'd reached the end of his rope, and now he was desperate for someone to help him not tie a noose.

"It seems it is fortunate we found one another, Mr. Barnes," T'Challa finally replied, standing up a little straighter. Bucky gave him a questioning look, but made no move to speak. "Some of the world's most renowned neuroscientists reside here in Wakanda. If I ask it of them, they will do everything in their power to remove that which you seek to bury."

A rush of air escaped Bucky's chest in a sigh of relief, and he felt his shoulders sag. But his mind raced over the king's words once more.

"And... will you? Ask them, I mean." His fingers rubbed against one another nervously. Bucky wasn't sure when he'd picked up that habit, but it'd been happening more and more lately. It reminded him a bit of when the Soldier used to tinker with his rifle, adjusting the sights and taking it apart to do a thorough cleaning. The muscles remembered what to do, without him telling them.

"I think you have an enormous capacity to do some good in this world," T'Challa said. "The day is swiftly approaching when you will be needed, and I will do what is necessary to make sure you are ready when that day comes. Besides, I would help you find some measure if peace, if I can."

Gratitude bubbled in his chest and threatened to spill out of his throat. "I... I don't know what... Thank you," he managed to choke out, fighting against the raging horror coming up from underneath. Maybe the Soldier knew what he was planning to do, or maybe he didn't. It didn't really matter; Bucky was in control, so he needed to act quickly, before he lost it and the Soldier did something stupid.

"You would be wise to inform Captain Rogers of your decision," T'Challa continued in that calm way of his, so full of wisdom for one so young. Bucky gritted his teeth tightly, but he nodded all the same.

The battle he faced was one he didn't look forward to. But it was one he needed to win, no matter the cost. If he had to break Steve's heart to do it, then so be it. For the first time in years, he could feel a measure of the weight he carried being lifted from his shoulders. This was the best option he could think of, for his safety, and everyone else's.

* * *

Sunshine greeted him when he opened his eyes. Bucky was surprised to find that he hadn't dreamed anything at all after coming back to his room. No endless replays of innocent people being slaughtered at his hands; no fields full of their dead and mangled bodies; no flames engulfing his body.

When he drew himself up out of the bed, he actually felt somewhat refreshed, even only functioning on a few hours of sleep. He showered quickly and then dressed himself in a pair of grey sweatpants and white tank top. His stomach rumbled in protest when he remembered he hadn't eaten anything since yesterday afternoon, so he made his way towards the kitchen, feeling oddly at peace after the events of last night. But that peace was shattered as he opened his door into the common area and found something other than daylight awaiting him.

Steve sat at their breakfast table, hands gripped together in front of his face and staring down at the tabletop in blank silence. As Bucky stepped into the large room, Steve's eyes flicked up to his face, losing some of their hardness. But his face didn't break into its normal grin upon seeing him; it remained oddly stony as he sat up straight and folded his arms overtop one another.

"We should talk," he said quickly, dispensing with any niceties they might have found themselves falling into. On heavy legs, Bucky crossed to the small table and took the chair opposite, never taking his eyes off the other man's clenched jaw and tense shoulders. Maybe he hadn't been as careful as he'd thought last night.

As he sat down, he tried to keep his face calm, even though he was anything but. This was a confrontation he'd hoped to have a little more time to prepare for. It seemed he wouldn't be that lucky.

"What's up?" he asked innocently, leaning back slightly in his chair, legs spread wide in an air of comfort.

"Can we not do this? Please?" Steve questioned, a hint of desperation coloring his voice.

Quickly, Bucky placed the front two legs of his chair back on the floor, bracing his hand on his knee and leaning heavily against it. "Okay," he sighed, "should I go first?"

"What did you two talk about?" he cut in, not even giving him the chance. So Steve had seen him... _Fuck._

"A lot of things," he mumbled with a shrug, looking down at the table to avoid the hurt look in Steve's eyes. "But mostly about... what has to be done."

"Nothing _has_ to be done." Steve's tone had taken on a certain forcefulness that Bucky had only heard a few times before. "You're safe here, Buck. And the scientists are working on gettin' you fixed up. What is there to do?"

Bucky pressed his mouth into a thin line, furrowing his brow. "I'm safe? You know that isn't true," he ground out through clenched teeth. It wasn't that he was angry; he was simply trying to maintain his control. If the trembling of his hand was any indication, he was doing a shitty job. "If there was one journal, there's gotta be more. I don't know who's left from those days... but I'm not takin' any chances. Not when other people's safety is on the line. You remember Berlin, right?"

"Of course I remember Berlin." Steve slapped his hand against the table, making it shudder under the sheer force. "But this isn't Berlin, Buck. This is the most secure place in the world. No one can reach you here."

"You don't know what they're capable of, Steve," he replied harshly, his gaze full of fire. "Those two years after D.C... I spent them hunting down every last operative I could think of. Most of them, I got... Some of them, I didn't. The ones I didn't aren't just extremely good at hiding. They're _lethal_ —"

"But not as lethal as you." Steve's voice had gone quiet as he gave voice to what neither of them wanted to discuss. Bucky's eyes flashed as they met Steve's, anger boiling in his chest.

"Not _me_ ," he said in a dangerously quiet voice. " _Him._ "

Steve leaned away from the table a bit, his face uncertain. He seemed to be grasping for something, anything he could say. "But if we could use it to our advantage, learn to control—"

"There is no controlling him, Steve!" He didn't mean to yell, but it hadn't escaped his notice how Steve referred to the Soldier as "it". Slowly, Bucky took a few, shuddering breaths to calm himself. "Believe me," he started again, quieter this time, "I've tried. You think I didn't try to fight him with everything I had back in Berlin?"

"You fought it in D.C., and you saved me."

"That was different. And _you_ might not always be there to bring me back to myself. I've run through every possible scenario for weeks now, Steve... Cryo is the only option."

Steve's shoulders suddenly sagged and his face became defeated. " _Weeks?_ " he managed to croak out. "You've been wrestling with this for _weeks_ and you're just now telling me?"

"I knew you'd fight me," he replied quietly. "This was something I needed to decide on my own. And I _have_ decided, Steve. It's done." Bucky could tell there was more he wanted to say, but he never gave him the chance. Swiftly, he stood from the table and headed out of the room. There'd be no harm in starting his testing early today, and he couldn't stand the look on Steve's face anymore.

It just might have convinced him to change his mind.

* * *

The day came a week later. In the days leading up, Bucky had kept his conversations with Steve shallow, never giving any indication of the conflict raging within him. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was the right choice, but the Soldier was still fighting him to the bitter end.

Looming before him was the cryo machine, the metal and glass glinting underneath the fluorescent lights. It seemed to be mocking him, laughing like it knew this was his only option. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was the only choice that could one-hundred percent guarantee the safety of the people around him. The person he'd give up anything to protect...

Steve stood close by, hands shoved in his pockets and eyes downcast. The small woman in front of him kept her face glued to the tablet in her hands, checking and rechecking the diagnostics coming from the sensors placed on his body. When she was satisfied with the readings, she removed the sticky pads from his skin and walked back to her workstation, leaving the two men with some small measure of privacy.

A thousand frantic thoughts passed over Steve's face, but he didn't give voice to any of them. Instead, he settled for, "You sure about this?"

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat and spoke the same words he'd already said a hundred times. "I can't trust my own mind," he said softly, looking away for a long moment. "So until they figure out how to get this stuff outta my head, I think goin' back under is the best thing... for everybody."

"But what about what's best for you, Buck? Why is this the only option?" Steve pushed further, more insistent this time. A last ditch effort.

He shook his head, allowing a few pieces of hair to fall into his eyes. A helpless smile made its way to his face. "I can't share my head anymore, Steve. I need him out."

"And if they can't fix it; if they can't undo what Hydra did to you?"

The thought had crossed Bucky's mind more than once in the last week. But there was too much at stake here; he couldn't afford to consider that failure was an option. In his mind, it _wasn't_ an option. Slowly, he looked back up at Steve, who had inched closer to where he sat on the patient bed.

"Well, then I need you to make me a promise." Steve looked at him questioningly. "If it comes to that... I need you to promise me that you won't fight it, that you won't tear the world apart to find an answer. If the smartest people in the world can't figure it out, then I might as well accept that I'm stuck with the Soldier inside my head forever. But I need you to understand... I don't want to live like that. I'd rather stay in until he's gone, than live one more day with him dogging every step. Can you promise me that?"

Steve seemed taken aback at the force of Bucky's words. He could tell Steve was conflicted, but he set his jaw and stood his ground. After seventy years of having someone else control his every step and action, he was going to take control for himself. This was his choice to make alone.

Finally, Steve let out the breath he'd been holding. "Okay," he said quietly, completely defeated. "If this is what you want..."

"It is," Bucky affirmed again, glancing over at the cryo chamber, open and waiting for him to crawl inside its quiet comfort. Steve followed his gaze and held out a hand, a small, sad smile upon his face. Bucky grasped his forearm and hauled himself up off the table, steadying himself against Steve's shoulder when he swayed slightly.

Slowly, they walked towards the chamber, shoulder to shoulder. Three feet away, Bucky stopped and drew in a steadying breath, turning to face Steve. For his part, Steve stayed quiet. There wasn't anything more he could say now. Bucky's mind was made up, for better or for worse.

Like a freight train, a memory hit him, bringing a smile to his face. Days long ago when they'd been terrified of the future, but brave—or maybe just stupid—enough to live like it didn't bother them. A technology expo and a heartfelt goodbye; it formed a lump in his throat and made it hard to breathe.

He offered Steve an unconvincing smile. "Don't do anything stupid 'til I get back," he said, echoing the words from the memory.

Steve's face lit up when he realized, and Bucky saw the tears come to his eyes. "How can I?" he asked with a lopsided grin. "You're taking all the stupid with you."

Bucky leaned forward and wrapped his arm around Steve's shoulders, slamming his eyes shut and memorizing the feeling of this. Steve grasped him tightly, shuddering against his chest. "Punk," Bucky laughed quietly.

"Jerk." Steve pulled away, a look on his face revealing there was so much more he wanted to say. But he didn't; this was how the goodbye was supposed to be. It wasn't goodbye, after all.

Bucky stepped forward into the cryo chamber and turned to face out, settling in to the padded rests that would hold him up. The woman with the tablet came over to the chamber and punched some buttons on a control pad at his right, offering him a reassuring smile. The glass barrier slid shut as he nodded his thanks, and then she retreated back to her workstation.

Steve kept staring at him with that mournful look. Bucky wished there was something he could say to reassure him, but he wasn't confident this would work either. He just had to put his faith and trust in other people, and hope for the best.

Blinking slowly, he turned his face towards the windows behind the woman's workstation, gazing beyond and out to the horizon. Sunrise poured over the mountains, bathing the world in orange and pink, lighting up his face. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, when he looked back at Steve and saw him smile at him fully. Consequently, it was the last thing he saw before his eyes fell shut and frost covered the glass in front of him.

The dreams that lay beyond the ice were ones of long ago. Summer days spent with his sisters; long nights with Steve at his mom's place in Brooklyn; cold winters in Europe, hunkered down in a foxhole. But they were all his, and all as vivid and real as the day he'd lived them. In his cryogenic sleep, he could relive the life he'd lost; he could be free, and remember.

And just beyond the horizon, daylight was waiting.

* * *

 _When I die let the flames devour me_  
 _When I die set me free_  
 _When I die throw my ashes to the breeze_  
 _When I die scatter me_

 _Daylight is waiting for you_

* * *

 **A/N: That's all! This piece is dedicated to the lovely Lmere. :-* Please let me know what y'all think, and I hope you enjoyed!**


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